‘He told you that?’ Kathy asked.
Gilbey looked up sharply, as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to.‘What? No, no, of course not.’
He turned away, a stubborn set to his jaw, as if he’d said too much and wouldn’t say any more. ‘So Betty was your model all that time ago,’ she tried, but he just grunted and refused to respond.
‘I need you to help me, Reg. I need to understand her, how she came to be the way she was. Paint her portrait for me now, in words.’
She waited, and then he began to speak again, voice low. ‘She was always like that, damaged goods. I don’t know where Harry found her or when they came to the square, but her English was still very ropy when I first arrived in the late sixties. Harry was twenty years older than Betty, and he’d had an eventful war by all accounts, and was pretty damaged himself. Couldn’t have sex with her, so she told me, after she’d been modelling for me for a while. Sounded like an invitation to me, so I obliged. Got her pregnant.’
Gilbey was speaking in a monotone, addressing himself to his portrait of Betty, stroking the surface of the paint like a lover.
‘Harry scared me, to be honest. He got this odd look in his eye sometimes. I didn’t fancy fronting up to him, or facing the complications that would follow. So I arranged for her to have an abortion. Practically frogmarched her to the place. Not like now. Backstreet knitting-needle stuff. Nasty… I was so self-centred, you see, I couldn’t imagine what it was like. You’ve lost your whole family in Europe somewhere, and then you fall pregnant, life returns, new hope. And then you have it snatched away from you, like that.’
He sniffed, ran a hand absent-mindedly across his head, making the tufts stand up more wildly than ever. ‘Nearly did for her. Tried to kill herself twice. Then Harry died one bitter winter, of pneumonia, and Betty went into a kind of trance. I tried to help, but she wouldn’t have me near her. Gradually she took on a role, Batty Betty, the mad woman of Northcote Square. She’s gone on playing the part ever since, an actor in a long-running show, becoming more extravagant year by year. At least that’s how I saw it, thinking of myself again, seeing it as a form of persecution of me, but maybe there was nothing voluntary about it.’
He fell silent, and Kathy became aware of sounds from beyond the window, of children’s cries from the school playground. Gilbey heard them too, and said,‘Has this got something to do with the little girl …?’
‘What do you think?’
‘They knew each other. I used to see them talking together, through the school railings or out there in the park. They seemed drawn to each other, two lost souls.’
‘Could Betty have known something about Tracey’s disappearance, or seen something? Did she hint at anything to you?’
He frowned.‘I don’t know. She liked to pretend she had secrets, it was part of her role…’
Then his concentration was broken by a loud rap on the door downstairs and a man’s voice, harsh, imperious. ‘Gilbey? I’m here. Where are you, man? Are you ready for me?’
Gilbey swore under his breath and Kathy heard footsteps, more than one pair, on the stairs. Then a tall, elderly man, hawk-nosed and severe in appearance, marched into the room.
‘Ah, here you are,’ the man said, and then, noticing Kathy, gave a stiff little nod of his head.‘Going to introduce me to the lady, Reg?’
‘Sir Jack Beaufort, this is Detective Sergeant… I’m sorry, I can’t remember.’
‘Kathy Kolla,’ she said.
‘Hackney?’
‘The Yard,’ Kathy replied.
‘Brock’s crew? Aha.’ Beaufort eyed her narrowly, then carelessly indicated his companion.‘You know DI Reeves, Special Branch?’ Kathy recognised the man who’d come to see Brock on that first morning. She particularly noticed his eyes, watchful, but with an ironic glint, as if well used to Beaufort’s antics. He nodded to her with a hint of a smile.
‘I can’t do it today, Judge,’ Gilbey said. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to cancel.’
Beaufort looked from Kathy to Gilbey and back again, as if he suspected some kind of conspiracy in his courtroom.‘Nonsense. What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve just had some bad news. A friend of mine has died.’
‘At our age that happens every week. Close?’ Then he noticed the portrait of Betty against the wall. ‘My God! I haven’t seen that one before, Gilbey. You’ve been hiding her from me.’ He moved closer, taking out a pair of narrow glasses and putting them on.‘Oh my! Sixty-nine, eh? Your best year, in my humble opinion. It’s the same model as the Woman in a Bath, isn’t it? Yes… yes…’ He absorbed it, then barked,‘I’ll have her. How much do you want?’
‘She’s not for sale.’
‘We’ll see. So who died?’
‘My neighbour,’ Gilbey muttered, staring at the floor, apparently intimidated by his client.
The boisterous mood seemed suddenly to desert Beaufort, and he became serious.‘Not the mad woman?’
‘You know her?’ Kathy said.
He took his time to turn his gaze to her and respond, as if to make the point that it was his habit to interrogate police officers and not the other way around. Then, at the last minute, he flashed what might have been intended as a disarming smile. ‘Yes indeed. We’ve seen her in the street, haven’t we, Reeves?’
‘Sir.’
‘She was being pursued by a flock of little girls, at a safe distance. What were they calling her?’
‘Batty Betty, I think it was.’
‘Yes. Were you close friends, Gilbey?’ Then he stared again at the painting and realisation lit his face.‘It’s her, isn’t it? The Woman in a Bath was the lady next door, yes? How fascinating.’ He turned to Kathy.‘And is this of interest to you, Sergeant?’
‘Yes.’ Kathy bit off the ‘sir’ that almost followed. ‘It seems probable she was murdered.’
‘Really!’Beaufort looked startled.‘But…why? Was it a robbery?’
‘We’re not sure at the moment.’
‘But you people are looking into it, are you? Not the local division? So you think…’
‘It’s too soon to say, sir.’
‘Well… yes, that is a shock for you, Gilbey. Northcote Square is becoming quite a hotbed of crime, it seems…’ he regarded Kathy with a malicious glint in his eye,‘… despite the heavy presence of Special Operations.’
Kathy caught the sarcastic tone and noticed a thoughtful frown cross the face of DI Reeves in the background.
‘Well, anyway, I’m here now, Gilbey old chap. You need something to distract you, and our deadline is fast approaching, so let’s get on with it, shall we?’
The way he spoke to the painter reminded Kathy of the way Tait had spoken to Gabriel Rudd that first morning, as to a distracted child needing to be brought into line. And Gilbey seemed to accept it, giving a resigned sigh and shuffling across to his easel while Beaufort draped himself on the chair placed by the window. It was the same place where Betty had sat almost thirty-five years before, Kathy thought. She also noticed that the pose Gilbey had given Beaufort had his head facing towards the window, although his eyes were turned back at the painter, as if the sitter had just been caught looking out at something-the children in the playground, perhaps.